Four ways to die by loving you
by nevertrustahug
Summary: Four types of love and all of them theirs. Doctor and Clara- Agape "He wants to kiss her until all the rain has fallen and all the stars have faded. He wants to get lost in her. Never to be found e wants to teach him of her love, convince him of her desire. Make him see her passion and feel her care."
1. Chapter 1

**-Four ways to die by loving you-**

 **(Storge, Filia, Eros, Agape)**

4\. Agape-/Greek/-translated as "love: the highest form of love. Unconditional love.

* * *

Another day another adventure, and yet another civilization safe and happy. They've done well.

Resting in the overwhelming silence of the TARDIS, Clara was caught trailing off her book and stealing glances of a tall, dark figure leaned over the console. Endless repairs; then off they'd go to save a new world; to marvel at a new wonder. Their routine; one miracle after the other.

She got up, slowly dropping the book on her seat; eyes never leaving the Doctor's turned back, busy at the console. It was nearly time for their next trip, and it was that moment Clara always found excited her the most. That anticipation, the adrenaline, the unknown.

She stood behind him, motionless; until she could be sure he sensed her eyes on him and waited until he carefully disposed off his tool. He then glanced behind his shoulder just enough to confirm her relentless gaze and asked:

-"So where to next, Clara?"

-"No."-she said almost cutting him mid-sentence. –"Your choice this time. I want what you want Doctor."-she paused a bit assessing his firm stance, for his face was shielded.-"So what is it you want?"

Oh, that was so far from an innocent question and they were both aware of it. She used the silence and insecurity of his body and moved closer.

- _What did he want?-_ Doctor repeated her question in his turmoiled mind. He wanted to show her everything.

He wanted to show her how subtly different the Sun's beams reflected through the same strand of her hair on each of the different planets he ached to take her.

He wanted to show her how the air smelled just that tiny bit more exotic and strange with each passing world she discovers through him. How flowers glistened that much more beautiful with her gaze upon them as if they gained extra vigour and gleam.

How could he even begin to explain?

How could he tell her that he wanted to make her smile and then keep doing that for the rest of time because her smile was his air.

How he would like her hand never to leave his; her touch gentle on his skin to linger and never fade. Permanent, just like the mark she left imprinted in his hearts. Burned in, unyielding, unwavering and constant.

How he craved her touch and breath on his neck; soft, warm and moist forever. No. Forever was not enough. He needed it to last more than that, and then some.

He wanted to take her to the end of the universe just to catch that feeling of her presence when all else is dead and gone but her soul and form; then steal her burning touch and cherish it forever more. To feel what no one has ever felt before, with the ferocity no one could endure and then never let it die out. He is selfish, but he needs it.

How could he explain his need of that sparkle in her eye he elicits in rare moments, but doubtlessly lives for. That sparkle in her brown eye that shines suddenly when he shows her wonders.

He needs to see how her face lights up every time their eyes meet, just before she averts them out of shyness. He craves that light like oxygen, but forgives her for the deprivation because in that moment it is replaced with a telling inhale he wants to hear as a lullaby song. Soft moan she prays to go unnoticed, but is music to his ears when he's falling asleep. And her sudden hitch in breath and rapid heartbeat that escapes while he brushes his hand on hers.

He wants to study her intently and profoundly because she is art. Misunderstood, invaluable and ambiguous and he wants to cherish her and prize her. Keep her and own her. Hold her and protect her. Save her and never lose her. Make her come undone and then gently piece her together once more in his arms.

He wants to hold her until all the oceans have drained away into nothingness, and all the snow has melted; and he wants to have her until all the birds have flown, and all the flowers have blossomed.

He wants her to feel the alien breeze on her skin and watch her flesh tremble and shiver from that rough, cold and unexpected sensation just so he can have an excuse to embrace her; keep her soft body tight against his. Keep her warm and never let her go.

He wants to take her to a planet where they only speak in rhymes so that he could whisper soft poems in her ear and sing beautiful melodies while she sleeps, to keep the bad dreams at bay.

He wants to kiss her until all the rain has fallen and all the stars have faded. He wants to get lost in her. Never to be found again.

He wants to feel her breath in his mouth as a reminder of that laughter he stole from her just before their lips met for the first time. That laughter that bounced of the silence and echoed back, until he claimed it for his own; feeding on it.

He wants to run the tip of his tongue over his teeth and taste that laughter, to make it last a bit longer. And he wants to tell her how weak he becomes in her arms, hopeless. How fragile his soul feels when she touches him.

He wants her to know how much she is beautiful to him, and he wants to tell her that 12 times a day. Because even though he knows it, she may not be aware.

He wants the Sun to set each night, and rise up again in the morning only to catch them in the same position-entangled and as one. He wants to taste her until all the stars in her eyes have passed in orbit and the moon shines so bright it drowns them away. Then he wants to continue tasting her while clouds obscure the moon, and a light breeze rushes through his bones making him shiver and pull her closer.

He wants to steal her breath endlessly through the night, replace it with his own and then steal it again.

He wants to smell her gentle skin until he is all but lost in the shattering feeling, and time itself consumes him finally and completely. He wants all and forever.

He wants to sculpt her in his hands through each passing hour of darkness; trace the texture of her body and create her every night in his bed.

He wants to make her body and soul come alive over and over, until she last forever, and he wants to burn her signature in his soul next to the stamp of her name on his hearts.

He wants to burn for her and for his flames to protect her little smile for as long as je lives. He wants her…

-"You…"-escapes his mouth and goes almost unnoticed until he realizes it was said aloud.

-"Doctor?"-Clara asks confused.

-"…to be happy."-he recovers scratching his curly hair and hiding his betraying eyes.-"Is that what you want Clara?"

She is caught by the question. And afraid.

Because she wants so much and for so long.

She wants to teach him of her love, convince him of her desire. Make him see her passion and feel her care.

She wants so much more than she is daring to imagine. She wants to ask him for a soft kiss or a brush of his fingers on her cheek.

She wants to feel his hearts race when she comes near. See his eyes flare and dare to make a first step without fear of him running away or rejection.

She wants to feel her fingers tangle in his curled chest hair and tickle him until he can't take anymore.

She wants to experience the raw power of passion in his arms. To feel his body pressed against hers, trembling over her; towering and encompassing her.

She wants to feel him move inside her, hear his breath stutter and come short and then warm her neck as he moves against her once more.

She wants to feel his heaving chest brush against hers, his arms search for anchor on her hips, and his head for shelter in her neck when he finally succumbs and lets go so she can hear her name in that voice, at that moment; and she wants to hear him say it.

She wants to know all of him and she wants him to want her. She wants…

-"You…"-she whispers and reaches to hug him from behind, placing her head on his shoulder.-"…to show me something amazing."

Her answer does not make him turn around. Instead, he feels her small body encompass him as her arms come around his chest. A soft embrace he does not flinch away from, but raises a hand to hold in place.

-"All of time and space, and all you want to do is hug me?"-he finally turns around so he can properly put his arms around her gentle frame.

She is smiling at him now, content and safe.

-"Until you are really for more."-she sighs and drops her head on his chest and in that moment, all the wonders come to them.


	2. Chapter 2

**3\. Eros- erotic bond- "intimate love"**

 **Warning: mature scenes, rough sex, pwp, nsfw, dubious consent**

It will not start romantically. It will not be like in that silly little love-at-first-sight and "he is my world, or she is my-everything"-stories.

It will not start with a chaste kiss or gentle brush of lips or a soft caress followed by a needy inhale as he traced her lips with his tongue and whispered soft caresses into her mouth. It will start with pain.

He will tug her hair forcefully and claim her mouth.

He will not hold her gently. There is no gentleness left in his hearts. No more patience either. It has been replaced by anger and raw urgency. Hungry need and bleeding desire and ripping longing.

He will not spare her, nor save her. He has no time for her soul. He will have her and he will be relentless.

He will take her, and she will succumb.

He will love her two times. Until it hurts like hell. And then again until it hurts no more.

He will love her never and now, and always and then and until he can love no more and back again. Until he crumbles and chokes in the ashes of his ripped scars, and sews up the rips time and time again.

She will not stop him; she will not wait or want to wait. Her human life is fleeting and not unlimited as her love.

She will not caress his lips softly and thread her fingers through his silver hair gently. She will take his lips and bruise them. It will hurt, it will be raw and it will be needy.

She will force her fingers through his hair and scratch deep until he sighs in pain.

She will rip open his shirt sending buttons flying all over and she will not breathe into his mouth to ask him for more. She will take more.

And he will give her more. He will conquer her; enslave her and enchain her.

He will not go slow. He will not linger at the sight of her exposed breast. No.

He will lift her skirt ripping lines in her new, blue stockings and force her against the nearest bookcase." _My, my- what have we here?"-_ he will whisper.

He will not apologize when she loses her breath from the force of the impact. He will pin her against the bruising edges and claim her without delay. And she will scream for the first time when his fingers find her _."Good girl"-_ he will smirk.

She will not seek his soft, gentle touch. She needs no softness or kindness. She needs exactly what he needs. She needs that pain of passion and she needs it to never end.

She will not ask him to slow down or to wait. No. She will yank his belt and grip him firmly.

He will let out a growl and lift her up immediately; his strong hands stretching her until he lowers her swiftly and suddenly. And she will scream for the second time.

He will not wait and he will not give her time to adjust. He will move making her mind go black. Swirling lights around her will daze her eyes and whirl her senses. He will be inevitable _."You are all mine"._

He will make her beg and he will not grant her pleads.

And she will take it all. She will be grateful and she will ask for more.

And then he will go slow. It will hurt; it will bruise and it will last forever. And she will beg for more. _"All mine."_

-"Ask me nicely."- he will growl and she will do as she is told.

Her back will bruise and her head will hurt against the books. Cold leather in her sweaty flesh. Open pages cutting her exposed skin. Her eyes will fill with water and he will only push harder. And she will scream for the final time and shudder around him.

And he will ride through it, not letting her recover. And then he will break.

It will last and it will end. It will end with pain.

Everything ends.


	3. Chapter 3

**2\. Philia: affectionate regard, friendship. Love between friends**

 **-Scream no more-**

* * *

Loosing was never part of the plan. Pain was never part of the bargain. Acceptance was never part of her story. But it was how the story unfolded. Loss, pain and failure to accept. And grief mixed with anger. So much anger. But it happens like that so often, doesn't it? How many times have you heard that a person lives in his or hers dream house, or has a dream job, or family with no worries? We hope for the best but expect the worst. But we are never prepared. Not truly.

Blood on her hands and skirt. Not hers. Dirt under her nails mixed with blood. Remnants of her heart. Digging until her fingers all but broke. Until her vision was so blurred by tears, sweat and denial she could no longer see all the dead bodies beneath the pile of cement and ash. Until she could no longer hear their screams. Until he came and dragged her away. That's when it started. Her screams.

So many dead. Children. Her school bombed and left for the dust to settle. Horrors of war. All children. And she could not save them.

Clara is crying again. Her tears are a reminder that flow briskly down her face; almost cruelly but painfully for sure. The horrors that she saw. She failed and she will never forget that.

The Doctor carries her she knows not where. She cares not. She cares no longer of what fate will fall onto her fleeting body for her soul is shattered. Dead. An echo of what it once was, could have been and never were. She is broken.

He is carrying her to safety. Whatever passes for safety these days anyway. The TARDIS will provide, he's sure. She always does. And he must not cry. He needs to be strong for her. The pain he endures now will just have to join the rest of it; and he will grip it hard and never let go. Like he always does. Until he breaks too.

The bed she is in is cold and unaccepting. The pillow drenched with her tears and silent screams.

She can feel a soft hand on her stomach as she trembles through the night. Body pressed to hers firmly, sharing the space of resented fear. He used to make everything better and now he could not do as such. She needed time.

She is screaming again. It's desperate and deafening but he holds on to her body. She is kicking him; scratching but he does not move. Only embraces harder.

He could make her sleep, yes. Induce it in a tick. But that would not help or change anything. She would still never forget what she witnessed; still feel the pain she now breaks under. The pain of failure. But she would never forgive him if he took that memory away. So he dares not. So he will stay by her side. And he will cry too.

And there will come a time during that night when she will finally grow silent. Weak from screams and tears. From the pain and anger. And she will sleep but not dream. He will make sure of that. No nightmares in his worm embrace. And she will scream no more.

But he will still cry. Because he thinks it was his fault, when it probably wasn't. He thinks he could have prevented it, when he really couldn't. He imagines he could have saved her the pain when he couldn't or share the loss when he clearly cannot.

But he will still blame himself. Because he is the Doctor. Unforgivable. Unforeseeable. Unrelenting and unyielding, And he cares. He always did; and no matter how much it hurts, he will never stop.


	4. Chapter 4

**1\. Storgē-** **Natural love or affection;** **also known to express mere acceptance or putting up with situations, as in "loving" the tyrant**

-Loving the tyrant-

-Ouroboros that time is-

 **(Warning: graphic depiction of violence, BD (bondage/discipline), corporal punishment, consent given, NO SAFE WORD, hurt/comfort, other mature themes mentioned)**

Clara knew this was the night the Doctor will ask for it. That he will demand for no mercy. No pity or forgiveness. No remorse either. Just pain. The sort of pain he can define. And she knew what it meant to him. He needed pain he could put a number to on a scale of one through ten as it burns; and then feel slowly but surely subside. The pain he knew will die out. The pain that will end.

She once dared to ask:-"How much?", but she got a simple answer:-"As much as you can manage."

She never asked again.

* * *

There are two types of people. There are those who speak little but say much; and those who speak all the time but say nothing. Well, nothing that could be relevant to important issues. The Doctor was that other kind. Always talking but never about what mattered. Never about what ailed him, or what he was failing to understand. And emotions were something like that. He sort of understood them, but not quite. So he chose not to share them. He would keep quiet and then act surprised when they got a bit too much. And they did sometimes. Balance of probability and the inevitability of chances. The path he was always ending up on. Road he would ultimately walk, but kept running from. We all would.

He was always fighting for peace, on more than one front usually and for so long now. For that prospect of good deed and moral stance. But peace is a funny little beast. Always changing and evolving, and never what it once was.

It was easier before. Peace simply was. Now it took so much energy, so much effort. Peace had to be earned and fought for. Where did we go wrong? The beings of this ridiculous Universe are always aching for a fight. _Kids and their quarrels_ -he would say. Because that is exactly what we are for this ancient alien and his infinite wisdom. Kids.

The meddling Lord of Time; universe's own savior and carer. The Doctor.

But the Universe did not always agree, and that is where emotions come into play. They were the Universe's wake up call for the dreamy Time Lord who believed in miracles and that all beings in it would live in harmony and love, and that he alone is enough to keep it that way. A fairy-tale isn't it? How foolish he has been.

* * *

It's been a hellish day and he felt morally drained. Battered and un-clean. Damaged.

The sheer energy that went into fighting both humans and zygons in their unfortunately shared stupidity and blatant disregard for his pleads has pushed him on the very edge. He felt violated. Betrayed. Angry. And afraid of what that might make him do.

A speck of hatred he cheated on for so long sparked his already uneasy hearts into panic. Or was it no time at all? He couldn't tell anymore. Time had no more concepts for him. It was unending, unforgiving and constricting. An ouroboros of blows and throbbing. He felt it now. The superfluousness of his efforts. He needed help.

The deliverance of a righteous soul can never rest easy on the deliverer it would seem. The price to be paid would fall on those closest to him evenly as on the one most in pain. Was that righteous? Or was it selfish.

But there it was again. That unending pain; and anger. And he needed to chain them. Set free his fear and endure for another day. He needed to submit. To lose control. And he needed it bad.

* * *

She knew they had an agreement. Mutually accepted and shared experiences as he called them. The thing is, it wasn't always easy.

Hurting him was most of the time part of their little play. Seduction ritual or foreplay if you wish. Different species call it by different names, but they all come to the same conclusion. Enjoyable, ascending and immensely pleasurable. It would start with dominance and end with concordance. It would start with inequality and end with shared-echoing screams. Clara called it role-play. The Doctor called it truth.

But sometimes the Doctor wanted punishment alone, and Clara rarely enjoyed that. He would give her a significant look and silently go to _that_ room. She would follow.

He would take off his jacket and shirt and fold it very neatly. No words would be spoken, while she waited patiently for him to prepare. To reveal his upper body that would seem as never touched before. His smooth muscles and clear skin. His back that bore no scars or any proof of punishment. Time Lords healed quickly and completely it would seem.

She would suspect then what the ritual meant. It would not be playful. It would not be fun. But it was needed.

Still, she would try.

He would walk to the waist high metal chains facing a black-marble wall. Black like the trousers he seemed to wear a lot in those days. And the white polished floor would almost reflect the anguish of his labored walk. It would mourn in advance the pain it was about to witness. The guilt it was about to accept.

He would wait for her to shackle his arms. Nice and tight. No way out. Like he even wanted that.

And to lift them up above his head, stretching him. He would exhale once. Only then would he speak. Just one word. His preference. Cane, whip or belt. It was usually one of these three.

It was a whip this time. Single, snake-whip. Hard leathered and perfectly crafted for her small hand. It was their sacred trust. Because he would trust her with his weaknesses. And that is why she agreed to help.

He would wait for her to prepare knowing it was not easy. Understanding for once what immense favors he was expecting of his carer; what sacrifice it demanded.

She would walk in front of him first with her best seduction face. She had to try at least.

Brushing his chest and playing with a few gray locks she would drop down and reach for his belt, but she would be cut off.

-"No. Not this time."

-"Why?"

-"Because I'm afraid."

She would understand. But it was not easy still, seeing him like that. Desperate and broken. To see him chained and stretched and begging to be hurt. And accepting.

* * *

-"More."-he would say over and over again. Teeth clenched and body twitching with every lash. Blood lazily draining down his back and dripping on the stained white-polished floor. But he would still demand more.

-"More!"-he almost yelled and Clara hit him again with more strength. She was growing tired but the Doctor was adamant.

-"Harder."-he whispered,-"please Clara, I know you can. Please."-she could barely hear him mutter as he closed his eyes.

* * *

It wasn't always like this. The chains. The tyrant-chains as Clara called them were rarely used. She preferred a more playful domination games. This brutal thing was only used by his demand. It was the ultimate pain deliverer, and reserved for desperate moments. Moments like this one.

Moments when he was so close to breaking it was unbearable. So close to releasing all the pain and anger he trapped inside he could not stand it anymore.

But now it was Clara who was close to breaking. Every stroke of the whip she delivered left another silent tear to roll down her face. But she said nothing.

-"A few more and it will be over."-she almost prayed. But the Doctor could take so much pain.

Yet, she was lucky this time. After a few more brutal blows his head slowly dropped, and body relaxed. No sound.

He just hanged there by his arms. Hanging on the chain that cut deep into his wrists, his back savaged. And she knew she could stop.

Taking his down always took an effort. But she did as much as she could to lay him down gently. He would wake then. And she would cradle him in her lap while he cried. Because she is Clara. And she is his carer.


End file.
